


let that go without comment

by liodain



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Anal Fingering, Humor, M/M, Prostate Massage, Sexual Dysfunction, the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26605429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liodain/pseuds/liodain
Summary: From his vantage between Shaw's knees, Flynn can tell there's a marked lack of straining going on in the smallclothes department.Not exactly heartening.
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Comments: 19
Kudos: 134





	let that go without comment

**Author's Note:**

> This is ham's fault. she didn't talk me into it or anything, I'm just blaming her for fun

Flynn's had a casual bet with himself ever since Shaw started warming up to him. Well, more idle fantasising really, but Flynn is a gambling man. What he's been running the odds on is whether Shaw is as composed in bed as he is everywhere else. On one hand, he's strung tighter than a double gunner's knot. On the other, more exciting hand, it's always the quiet ones.

No wager, since getting to find out is reward in and of itself. Flynn unbuckles another strap and tugs yards of cord through various eyelets in his attempt to get Shaw out of his armour, while Shaw exhales, twists his hands in the bedlinen and is otherwise less help than Flynn would expect. He looks as though he's concentrating very hard on something, and possibly that something has nothing to do with what's currently going on in his stateroom.

His name sounds like _shore_ in Flynn's accent: dry and distant and longed for, so maybe it's what he should have expected.

Under a couple of layers of tight leather, he hits jackpot. Finally, some bare skin. A hipbone, no less. Flynn puts his mouth to it. That's enough to get Shaw into the moment, and he lifts from the bed to let Flynn peel his breeches off. 

"You wanna give me a hand with the rest?" Flynn says. "I feel like I'm being assessed on my problem-solving skills."

"You are," Shaw says vaguely, but dismantles his chestpiece for him anyway. From his vantage between Shaw's knees, Flynn can tell there's a marked lack of straining going on in the smallclothes department. Not exactly heartening. He flicks his eyes up to Shaw's face. 

Shaw notices him noticing, and rolls his head back against the cabin wall with a thump. His throat works.

"It's not you," he says in his steady, firm way. "It's... everything else."

"Oh." Shaw's older than him by a decent margin, battlescarred and battle weary, and far as Flynn can tell is perpetually under a lot of stress trying to keep track of who's doing what, where, to what degree and to what end, so he'll buy it. "Well, as long as it's definitely not me."

"Perhaps another time." Shaw reaches for his discarded uniform.

"Like when?" Flynn leans his weight on him so he can't get far without some effort. "Tomorrow? Next month? When the war's done? Am I gonna have to seduce you all over again?"

That might have been a smile if it weren't so bitter. "Let me up, Captain."

"In a bit." Flynn gives Shaw's knee a sympathetic pat. "Happens to the best of us, you know. It's not a problem." 

"Easy enough for you to say."

"Yep. But if you want me to stop saying things, I'm offering a solution here. And, you know. More than a mouthful's a waste."

"Please understand. Nothing you can do will help." Shaw's moustache is frowning, so Flynn reckons his mouth's doing about the same. Frustration edges into his tone instead of the usual tolerant grumble Flynn's bawdiness would usually garner him. These things give him a moment's pause, but no more than that.

"Come on, mate, are you going to give up that easily?" Flynn flattens his palm against the tense muscle of Shaw's thigh, and he pitches his voice low, as if sharing a secret. "Bet I could still get you off."

Shaw takes a measured breath through his nose. His hand is very warm where it cups Flynn's shoulder. 

"Unless," Flynn continues, still low, "the problem really _is_ me. In which case I'd rather you give it to me straight. Go on, I can take it."

"It's not you," Shaw says again. His hand goes from Flynn's shoulder to his chin, tipping his face to him. "It isn't you, to the point that I'd hoped this wouldn't—" he presses his mouth tight and a muscle tenses in his jaw, but he's already said too much to do anything but finish. "Wouldn't be an issue. I'm... sorry."

Flynn hears the unspoken end to that sentence, so he leans up and kisses Shaw resolutely, trying to assure him just how much he isn't disappointed, how he will happily take him however he comes, pun intended. Shaw makes things just that little bit worse by returning it as though he has something to prove. His pulse drums hard enough, even if it's all thunder and no storm. 

Maybe he expects that Flynn wants to fuck him. Good thought, but not the plan.

Flynn slides his hand beneath his smallclothes and into the crease of his lap. He's velvety-soft against Flynn's palm, a fraction interested but not near enough for whatever he had in mind. He envelops Shaw's cock, gives it light squeeze and hears him sigh.

Maybe Shaw expected to fuck him. Good thought, might save it for later. 

What Flynn has in mind is this: get his face in there and enjoy the challenge. He nuzzles into the ascetic dip of Shaw's stomach, kisses the arch of his ribcage, his sternum, the long bruised sweep of his collarbone, all the while working his smallclothes down and over his hips until he's more naked than Flynn had ever though possible. 

Flynn gets a hitched breath out of him when he ducks back down to kiss his cock, still resting lax between his thighs, but he's otherwise pretty serene. He mouths along its soft length for a while, indulging his curiosity over how he's been cut in the mainlander tradition. There's a faint scar and a change in skin texture he can feel when he drags his lips over it. 

He glances up. Shaw's rolled his head back against the wall again, though more gently this time, or at least Flynn was so distracted he hadn't heard the thump. He's breathing evenly and, by Flynn's estimation, is far too controlled for having someone lavishing such attention upon his tender bits.

So, Flynn slips his mouth over the head and dips his tongue into the slit, and—there we go. Every muscle in Shaw's body pulls as tight as a sweated-up halyard. He breathes in hard through his nose. His hand goes to Flynn's head, fingers raking through his hair and pulling strands loose from his tail, but he doesn't push or direct, even when Flynn slowly draws him all the way in.

He fits entirely with no effort, no aching jaw, no struggling for breath, no choking even when Flynn's nose is flat against the neat plane of his belly. Shaw swallows, then mutters a delightfully nautical curse.

Flynn can't be expected to ignore that. He stops immediately, to a frustrated exhale, and raises his eyebrows. "Were'd you learn that one?" 

"Boralus," Shaw says to the cabin ceiling. 

"Anything else to add?"

"I'll keep you in the loop."

Flynn laughs, and this time he keeps his lips tight when he takes him in. Shaw's hips lift, pressing with a sort of fevered desperation. It makes Flynn feel a tiny bit guilty about how hard he is himself, so he sucks gently and rolls his tongue over Shaw's cock, presses it against the roof of his mouth, to the inside of his cheek, taking all advantage of its shifting suppleness. He works at it until Shaw's thighs begin to quiver. 

He has no idea if a guy can actually come like this, but he'll be damned if he's not going to find out the best way possible. Mostly he hopes this feels even a bit close to how it might when Shaw's fully hard. For all purposes but one, he may as well be. He's groaning like he is. Flynn runs his hand over Shaw's stomach and the jut of his hipbones, and because he'd rather like to hear a bit more cursing, trails between his legs, behind his balls, and lets him thrust with harmless abandon

Flynn's finger slips lower, and Shaw's breath catches. He grabs Flynn's wrist.

"That's enough," he mutters. 

By all means, if this is as much as he wants—that's a forfeit, not Flynn losing either of his bets. But Flynn has his heart set on some indecorum, so he lets Shaw feel the edge of his teeth. Shaw jerks, swats at him and calls him something pleasingly disagreeable, then tugs Flynn's hand to his mouth and presses a rough kiss to his knuckles.

"Enough," he says again, this time with authority. "You've made your point."

Flynn relents and lets his cock slip free, spit-slick and a little plump but still nothing more than a sixth of an erection if he's being generous about it. "I wasn't trying to make a point. I was trying to make you—" 

Shaw hauls Flynn up with one hand and gropes him jealously through his trousers with the other, then pulls him on top, bringing their hips flush. 

"You know, stoicism is a very annoying personality trait." Flynn reaches between them to free himself from his clothing, nudging his stiff dick alongside Shaw's soft one, laughing when Shaw tries shut him up with a very persuasive kiss. Flynn doesn't have the heart to tell him that it's entirely the wrong approach.

"Hmm," he says into Flynn's mouth. "I don't think you want me weighing in on annoying personality traits."

"Aw, but I love hearing how intolerable you find me."

"Is now really the time?"

"It's always the time. Don't you like it? I do."

Fond exasperation rolls off him. "Light. You drive me spare." 

"Yeah?" Flynn says breathlessly and turns onto his back, then hauls Shaw on top of him. He grunts and grumbles but settles in quickly enough, stretched out atop him. 

"You drive me," Shaw says, his hip digging into Flynn's lower belly, "to distraction. Nobody ever dares speak to me the way you do." 

It's so far from a criticism it makes Flynn's heart thrill. That he says it as though confessing a heinous crime is a bit on the tragic side, though.

"You're allowed to like things, you know," Flynn tells him.

Shaw fixes him with one of his patented looks, then leans, slinging an arm over Flynn and the edge of the bed, shifting his weight around enough that it winds him. The man is all elbows and knees.

"Oof," he says with mostly-mock belligerence.

"You put me here in the first place. Stop complaining." Shaw sounds absent, his focus directed into rummaging about on the floor. He palms something. "Give me your hand."

"You what now?" Flynn says, which makes Shaw sigh and catch him by the wrist himself. He uncorks a bottle of something he'd nabbed from under his bunk, or more likely from one of the inexplicable pouches on his pauldrons, and dribbles a generous amount over his fingers for him. It's slippery, viscous and hopefully not deadly.

"It's a carrier oil. Don't look so worried."

"Well, I can be a little bit worried," he says, as Shaw makes sure his knuckles are coated in the stuff. "Where are we going with this? I thought you—"

"I changed my mind." Shaw hikes a leg over Flynn's hip; Flynn catches the crook of his knee with the hand that isn't currently greasier than a Kul Tiran breakfast. "You're right. I am allowed to like things." 

He buries his face in Flynn's shoulder and guides his oiled hand between his legs. 

Flynn's dick jerks where it's pressed hot against Shaw's stomach. He feels a low rumble: Shaw laughing under his breath. It shakes him as though he'd surprised himself with it, then catches and dissolves into a gratified sigh when Flynn gives him a stroke behind his balls. No answering twitch from him, but Flynn has every confidence that he's there in spirit.

"Say that again." Flynn trails a slick finger over that smooth span of skin, then further up, exploring in slow circles. The oil is warming in their body heat; it smells like late summer. Under his fingertips, Shaw tenses and relaxes in turn.

"What?"

"That I'm right."

Shaw's inhale is audibly patient. Flynn merrily continues his circling.

"You're shameless," Shaw says hoarsely. 

That's good enough for Flynn. He presses the tip of a finger into Shaw, who makes a fantastic noise. Oh, he _does_ like that. And Flynn likes that he likes that, and that he wants this from him with minimal negotiation, relatively speaking. Shaw might be a man who says more with his silences than he does with his words, but there's nothing Flynn would like better than to hear what other noises he has hidden away.

"Steady on, they can probably hear you up on deck," Flynn says, which is perhaps at cross-purposes, but he can't resist, even now, trying to get Shaw's goat. "All right, there?"

"I'm fine," Shaw says evenly, goat un-got for the time being. "I can take more."

Flynn's eyebrows rise, but he decides to stop amusing himself at Shaw's expense and gently eases his finger all the way in. Shaw helps him along with a deep groan and a roll of his hips. It drags his cock, still resolutely soft, against Flynn's belly. 

"I said I can take more," Shaw says. "We aren't going to get anywhere otherwise."

"Where are we getting to? Aren't we just having a nice time?"

"Yes. But it could be nicer." 

"Ouch. Say what you mean, why don't you." Flynn slides his finger out and returns it along with another, steadily working the both further into him. That makes Shaw sit up and pay attention. Or, more accurately, sit up and bear down. 

"That's it," he breathes, bracing one hand on Flynn's chest and reaching back to grasp his wrist. He makes a subtle adjustment to the angle of things and begins to rock onto Flynn's fingers in controlled, shallow thrusts. Precome wells from his cock, and Flynn watches in fascination as his eyes flutter closed, a flush working its way up his chest. 

On the next steady thrust, Flynn gives his fingers a twist, just to see what that does. 

Shaw tightens his grip on Flynn's wrist and halts entirely, cracking an eye open. 

"Fancy one more?" Flynn offers.

"That would be—" 

Shaw doesn't get to finish his sentence, because Flynn abruptly decides the setup for this is all wrong. If he'd known they were about to engage in a provocative bout of fingering, he wouldn't have flipped them in the first place. So he turns them again, halfway to tumbling off the bunk in his enthusiasm.

"You haven't an inch of decorum, have you," Shaw says, watching him scrabble to right himself

"Sorry, not up on my fingerbanging etiquette. You can throw the book at me later." Flynn hooks a hand behind Shaw's knee once again, only this time he can gently bend his leg up against his stomach, tilting his pelvis just nicely. "Now, where were we?"

"Three fingers, I believe." Shaw's tone says he may be under Flynn, but he's still the one in charge here. Well, Flynn will let him have that for now.

"Coming right up."

It's more of the suspect oil or nothing, but Flynn supposes Shaw doesn't put anything in his body he's not completely trusting of. Present company excepted.

Or not. 

The thought catches Flynn off-guard for a moment, but only for a moment. He sets it aside to think about later, because there's only so much he can process when he's about to put three fingers up another man's fundament. Tends to do strange things to the mood, otherwise. Still, he can't help leaning over to make meaningful lingering eye contact as he eases said fingers in up to the first knuckle, even if the smile he's directing at him is probably on the goofy side. Shaw endures it like a champ, though he does finally break a sweat. 

He handles the fingers better. 

Flynn pushes them steadily into him, watching the tension in his face for clues. It's when he's just past the second knuckle that things usually get interesting, in his experience.

"Just a little—more," Shaw says, then lets out a guttural breath as Flynn hits the proverbial spot. He clenches softly around Flynn's knuckles. Flynn can feel his heartbeat throb against his fingertips. He curls his fingers and rubs. It pulls a sharp hungry sound from Shaw's throat; his hips jerk and his cock drips a thin milky fluid over his belly.

Lovely, lovely. A bit of that self-indulgence is just what Flynn wants from him. He presses the heel of his hand up behind Shaw's balls and stops the thrusting and twisting, instead rocking his fingers inside him. Each small movement sends a shudder through his body and coaxes out a new sound from between his clenched teeth. Flynn commits them all to memory in the event they'll be useful in the future. 

His cock keeps leaking steadily as Flynn works, slicking his stomach and hip and beading in the coarse hair of his groin. Flynn's sopping himself at this point, but first things first. He encompasses Shaw's soft cock in his free hand, coating it with his own copious fluids, and gives it a gentle squeeze and, when that earns him another exciting new noise, a long kneading stroke that's not ungentle, but not all that gentle either. 

"Ff," Shaw manages, takes a harsh gulping breath, then clamps down hard on Flynn's fingers and proceeds to shudder his way through the most thorough orgasm Flynn has thus far witnessed in his life, and he's seen one or two. Shaw's mouth pulls thin and tight, his vicious cheekbones shining with perspiration as he comes over Flynn's hand in a slow flood that seems to go on forever. 

It _is_ always the quiet ones. Quite the windfall, but Flynn can't say he isn't a tad jealous by the end of it. 

"Wow." He regards the state of things and contemplates it as thought it were some grand mystery. "When was the last time you—"

"Do not finish that question." Shaw, his arm flung over his face, sounds like he's wishing for a very sudden death. 

"All right, so you don't do afterglow. Can't say I'm surprised."

Shaw raises his arm enough to fix Flynn with an unconvincing glare, then all of a sudden relents with a sigh, arm flopping across his chest instead.

"Sorry," he says, far too sincerely for Flynn to handle at present.

"You don't know what came over you?"

Shaw squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Sorry," Flynn says. Then, "You know, this is more apologising than I strictly enjoy after sex."

"Sorry," Shaw says as though compelled, then makes a noise that probably began as a laugh but died before it got there. He stops pinching his brow and flattens his hand over his eyes instead.

He seems ever so slightly mortified. Flynn has no idea why. "A bit weak on the riposte, there. You okay?"

"Fine," Shaw says. Then adds, "That was… good." He sounds like he'd only narrowly stopped himself from saying thank you. Lucky. Flynn's not sure what he'd have done with such pathos.

"Happy to oblige. Anytime you need an encore, let me know."

"Appreciated."

"Even if you're only mildly het up, gimme a yell."

"I'll consider it."

"Feeling frisky? I'm your man."

"... understood, Captain."

"Just to be clear: I will sleep with you whenever, in whatever state, and, with a few minor but necessary exceptions, wherever you want. No questions asked."

Shaw lowers his hand from his face and looks at him gloriously askance. 

"Now," Flynn says, as diplomatically as he can manage. "If you're inclined to return the favour..."

"Oh, Light." Shaw sounds genuinely apologetic, though thankfully does without another sorry. He takes Flynn in hand as he settles alongside him.

Flynn places a quiet bet with himself over how long this will take. Odds say it's going to be an unflatteringly short affair, but finding out will be rewarding enough, whether sooner or later, or—if Shaw does that with his thumb again—imminently.

Shaw does that with his thumb again.

"Hmph," Shaw says, and kisses Flynn through his own rather satisfactory finale. "I'll let that go without comment."


End file.
